


wing-care is self-care

by SkellyMyDude



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Other, Platonic Relationships, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, Wings, adams only mentioned offhand tho, and love each other, crowley agrees, it can be read as either - Freeform, needless to say they are on Good Terms, only mentioned tho, or Both, or any kind of relationship???, take care of your wings if you have them!!!!, wing care is important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 06:23:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkellyMyDude/pseuds/SkellyMyDude
Summary: No one really thought too much about angel wings, outside of the occasional little joke involving bells or some such.Now however, wings were being thought about.Specifically, they were being thought about by a mildly drunk demon in the back of a bookshop at approximately twelve forty-three, midnight.





	wing-care is self-care

**Author's Note:**

> i decided to write this at fffftwelve in the morning, wrote half of it, got distracted, read a 40k fic someone else wrote (it was very good), remembered i was writing a fic, and finished it at four thirty gfhcvj  
> anyway i hope you all like the fic!  
> i tried

As a general rule, angels are not very bothered with wing maintenance. Oh, sure, they’ll wash them in a pool of Light or star dust or something every couple of centuries, and maybe preen them if the angel in question was particularly worried about the placement of some feathers, but as a whole their wings just. Weren’t really something to think about.

Back when no one had a specific job, when Humans weren’t a…vague priority, angels all over would take great pride in their wings, flying cartwheels everywhere, preening and ordering each others as they sat in the clouds and chatted about whatever new thing She had come up with.

Before the Fall, no one had to worry about things like paperwork, or Good or Evil. Those things hadn’t really been Created yet, or if they had no one was talking about it.

After the fall, though, those things were on everyone’s mind. No one Upstairs had the time to think about _preening_ , and then _humans_ became a Thing which was a whole other issue.

No no, angels certainly aren’t bothered with something as trivial as preening or some such.

Well.

Most angels aren’t. Weren’t. One angel is certainly enough of an outlier to be removed from the statistics, if there are any.

Initially, Aziraphale wasn’t too bothered with his wings. There was simply far too much going on in the world, what with all the fighting and sickness and plays and food and books. Oh, the books, absolutely wonderful things. Practically worth giving a feather for, some of those books. [i]

And then, with the apocalypse happening, and then suddenly decidedly not happening, Aziraphale was so stressed he couldn’t even begin to consider _wing care_ of all things.

All of this is to say that, after nearly six thousand years of zero attention, his wings were in a dire state indeed. Sure, they didn’t hurt or anything, a few miracles tossed their way and any blood feathers would sort themselves out in due time.

Adam had noticed their state when he had made Aziraphale and Madame Tracey two people again, but being an eleven year old boy under a large amount of stress meant the best he could do was make sure they were still there, and unbroken. Then his dad had arrived, and that was a whole Thing, and, well.

No one really thought too much about angel wings, outside of the occasional little joke involving bells or some such.

Now however, wings were being thought about.

Specifically, they were being thought about by a mildly drunk demon in the back of a bookshop at approximately twelve forty-three, midnight. The witching hour in some countries, but that fact is ultimately irrelevant to the story.

Crowley had been thinking about preening his own wings soon. It had been a year or so, his shed had passed recently and now was a great time for it. However, he was having a bit of an issue.

As it is with most things, preening could be…unnecessarily difficult. Usually just reaching the median coverts could be a bit tricky, but trying to get at the scapulars? Without help? That was a one-way trip to No-Thanks-Only-Pain-ville.

Crowley knew plenty a demon that had dislocated an arm trying to reach back there without help. Eventually, they all gave up.[ii]

Ever since getting taken off of Hells mailing list, Crowley didn’t really…have anywhere to go to take care of his wings. He couldn’t go back to Hell, he _definitely_ couldn’t go up to Heaven, and while getting a human to do it could work, preening was a bit too private to get some stranger for.

That left only one option.

Aziraphale.

There was an issue here though.

Crowley, sufficiently drunk enough now to ask, was held back by the realization that the only time he had seen the angels wings (excluding the air-base) had been way back in the Beginning, and back then they had been pretty ruffled. He didn’t really hold much hope in said angel’s consistency re: wing maintenance either, all things considered.

Steepling his fingers, Crowley leaned forward in his chair and watched the angel chatter about…bees or something. Something important, but irrelevant to what was on Crowley’s mind and therefore set to the backburner.

“See, they’re decreasing at an alarming rate, and they’re necessary for so much within the food system that, that, oh bugger what was I…” he paused, and Crowley leapt into the space.

“Dyou think bees need t’ groom their wings?”

“I…” Aziraphale paused, and then put his hand to his chin and rubbed it, as though he was using a large amount of brain-power to come up with an answer.

“Yeah, must do,” Crowley said, “bcause’ve, uh. Er. Most flyin creatures preen th’r wings yknow, so—”

“Mm, yes, but, bees are bugs, yes?”

“Mm, uh, wh—thought they were insects, weren’t they?”

“…arachnids?”

“No no, arachnids r’ the, the,” Crowley snaps his fingers a bit, searching for the word.” ‘rachnids r’ the sss—the sspiders, aint they?”

Aziraphale hummed. “Some spiders have wings. Nasty buggers, those ones.”

Crowley shuddered, and the two of them fell silent, some sort of fascinated horror filling their hazy minds as they tried to visualise the image of a flying spider in their heads. It wasn’t working out well for them, emotionally.

Crowley then started in place, remembering what he had been wanting to ask.

“Anyway, angel. Could I see your wings?” His voice was…upsettingly clear, the alcohol somehow not slurring or muddling the sentence at all. Instantly he sobered up a bit, but only halfway. He didn’t want to face Aziraphale’s response completely sober.

Aziraphale’s response was not forthcoming. The angel was silent, still drunk but contemplative and slightly tense. There was a long, uncomfortable pause.[iii]

“Alright, but it’s no spider wing.”

And then—they were there. Crowley froze, first in shock because Aziraphale just, just _did_ that, without a _single thought,_ and then in shock because fuck they were a _disaster_ , _what the fuck angel._ Aziraphale ruffled his wings a bit, watching Crowley staring at the mis-placed feathers with mild, drunken interest. Neither of them said anything, again, for a few moments.

Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly, uncomfortable. Crowley, jolted out of his vague horror, lifted his eyes to Aziraphale’s before, almost unconsciously, taking a small step forward. In an equally small voice, he said:

“Can—how, how long has it been, angel?”

Aziraphale, not understanding what he was trying to ask but understanding that this definitely seemed like a moment to be Less Drunk, sobered up a bit. He then flushed, realising exactly what was going on, but did nothing to prevent what had started. It was too late to pretend this hadn’t happened. He thought over what Crowley had said, and came up with an estimate.

“If…if we’re counting before the Beginning[iv]-“ Crowley nodded.”- then I’d say about…since. Not since the Fall?”

Crowley near looked like he was going to cry, or stab something, or both.

Now, something you really must keep in mind here is this: Aziraphale, genuinely, had no idea why Crowley was as upset as he was. For demons, being able to preen their wings was very important, being one of the only pleasures they had directly after the Fall. Eventually, after the Beginning, they all found other things to enjoy as well, but (although no demon with any sense of self-preservation would say it) the feeling was the closest they had to Divine Ecstasy.

For angels, who had constant, direct access to the feeling of Her Love, this was less of an issue, and so they held far less stock in the experience anyway. And, again, there was lots of paperwork and such to be sorted.

So when Crowley was so upset over this, Aziraphale had no idea what to do, and floundered. He considered putting his wings away, but Crowley immediately reached out and grabbed at a feather, gently. The tug halted Aziraphale in his tracks. They met eyes, Crowley’s shades having been knocked off by the speed of his action. He looked so unbearingly _desperate,_ and when he looked down at Aziraphale’s wings again, Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley wanted to ask, even if he couldn’t get the words out. He said it for him.

“Crowley, dear, would you…would you like to, ah…fix? …preen? My wings?”

Almost immediately, Crowley slumped over, all his emotions draining out, leaving behind faint echoes and set determination. Wiping at his face a little, he nodded.

“Kneel on the ground, next to the chair or table or something.”

Aziraphale nodded, and knelt between the chair and the couch, spreading his wings out over the two to rest on the cushions. He miracled up a small stool, and draped himself over it comfortably before turning around a bit to watch the demon behind him.

It’s almost stressful at first, for both of the ethereal (and occult) beings involved. Aziraphale can’t quite see what Crowley is doing, and Crowley, despite his visits to hell for exactly this sort of purpose, was finding it very difficult to realise that _yes, this is happening, its fine, Aziraphale trusts you._

Aziraphale _trusts_ him.

Because, even though angels care so little about their wings in comparison to demons, wings are still a manifestation of an ethereal beings’ soul. They represent their entire being, and Aziraphale so willingly turning his back, his wings, a vulnerable and yet oh-so-dangerous area to be in, to _Crowley_ to let him _preen_ and _take care of them._

It’s a Big Deal.

Shakily, Crowley reached down and brushed his hand along the outermost primary, the edges sharp in the way only an angels can be, and he oh-so-carefully smoothed it out, brushing at a powder-down feather and dusting the powder over the barbs. He repeated this over the rest of the primaries, before shifting his focus to the primary coverts, and then the alula.

As he worked, powder coating his fingers, Aziraphale slowly shifted, relaxing and sliding lower down from his lean on the stool. With a quick glance over at the hazy face of the angel, he miracled the stool into a comfortable, soft beanbag, and then moved to sort out the coverts.

Thankfully, Adam had managed to get rid of any broken or mangled feathers back when he was sorting this sort of thing out, and so Crowley didn’t have to pull any. Thank Adam for that, huh.

***

It took a few hours before Crowley had neatened Aziraphale’s wings to his liking, and by the time he was done Aziraphale was practically asleep on the bean bag, snoring a little after having been flipped over so Crowley could access the inside of his wings.

Looking down at the sleeping angel, Crowley made a face that could have been a smile, or could have been an adoring frown, but was definitely very soft and full of Love.

With a snap of his fingers, the two of them were upstairs in Aziraphale’s flat, in his bedroom. With another snap of his fingers, the bed was replaced with a large pit full of pillows and blankets, and looked just about as soft as the face Crowley had made.

Carefully, he picked up Aziraphale and laid him in the pillows, wings folded up and over the angel like a tidy, protective blanket. Of sorts. He looked around the room for a bit, before adding a bit more energy to the (admittedly already heavy) wards around the building.

A final, proud nod, and he pulled his own sleek black, slightly ruffled wings out, changed into some pyjamas with a flick of his wrist, and then collapsed into the Nest in the middle of the room.

Later, when Aziraphale stirred for just a few seconds, there was only one thing he thought:

_“Whatever is in this room seems to be very, very loved. I wonder what it is…”_

And then he fell back to sleep.

[i] He had, in fact, given a few feathers away for some of them. Wilde certainly found it intriguing, and Austen had made a rather lovely hat pin with hers. No one knew the nature of the feathers of course, but they were pretty and ethereal enough that no one wanted to ask.

[ii] In fact, there was a designated no-attack zone in Hell, specifically for wing preening. There was lots of gossip.

[iii] Uncomfortable for Crowley—Aziraphale was too drunk to care

[iv] Time was a rather loose concept before the Beginning, so Aziraphale couldn’t really estimate accurately.

**Author's Note:**

> Q: can i write Soft things?  
> A: ...(imagine someone shrugging thats the answer)
> 
> kudos and/or comments are appreciated but neither are required! have a great week everyone


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